The Vengeful Jewel
by Kooro
Summary: The case of a prized jewel and its aftermath: A case to retrieve a stolen jewel takes a turn for the worse when Holmes' reward is witnessed by the client's husband. Now his work has followed him home and it's looking for revenge. Bromance and humor
1. Tuesday, Jan 19, 9:45 am

****ONE BIG AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fanic is written a little differently. It jumps back and forth between the present and past. To avoid confusion, pay close attention to the **_**bold italics**_** that contain the date and time. This will clearly explain the time period in which the fanfic is occurring. I shall also post the date in time as chapters to make it easier.**

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The Vengeful Jewel

_**Tuesday, January 19, 1891  
9:45 a.m.**_

The infuriated man threw another punch at his dark-haired, agile opponent. The latter ducked with obvious ease and shifted behind the man to slap him lightly against the back of the head. The man spun around and lunged at his enemy only to have his prey dance nimbly away from his grasping fingers and land another slap against his hand.

Dr. John Watson watched the fight with his brow raised in amusement. He stood silently, leaning his shoulder against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest; his cane held loosely between his fingers.

His fellow onlooker fidgeted nervously at his side, wringing her silken handkerchief with her hands as she watched the ongoing fight. Her eyes flitted to the doctor beside her.

"Aren't you going to stop them?" she asked, her velvety voice quivering in an almost alluring fashion.

Watson didn't even spare her a glance. He kept his eyes on the two fighters. Particularly the dark-haired man wearing a wrinkled white shirt and black slacks.

"No," he sighed dismissively. "Let them get it out of their systems."

"But, what if they get hurt?" the woman questioned, her wide eyes blinking in shock as the dark-haired man dropped to the ground to kick the legs of his opponent out from under him, sending the man crashing down to the floor.

"Don't worry ma'am," Watson shrugged with little warmth. "I'm a doctor."

"You're also my assistant," the dark-haired man called suddenly, shifting his gaze to the audience for only a second before returning his attention to his rising adversary. "So start assisting."

"Not my fight, Holmes," Watson called back with finality.

Holmes grunted in response but was unable to argue as the man swiped a clenched fist at his face. Holmes dodged around it and closed the distance between himself and his opponent. Startled, the other man took a step back just as Holmes threw his open palm against the man's chest. The man stumbled backwards and tripped. Again he fell.

"That's never stopped you in the past," Holmes protested childishly, shooting a pouting plea at Watson.

"No time like the present to try something new," Watson replied snidely. His patronizing gaze shifted past Holmes as his face frowned with boredom. Yet the detective was able to detect the slightest flicker of concern in those glistening pools of blue.

"Behind you," Watson said simply.

"Thank you," Holmes said as he spun around just in time to block the man's right hook. Holmes pushed the arm away and rewarded the man with a slap to the shoulder.

Watson sighed. "I do wish you wouldn't bring your work home with you."

Holmes delivered a sharp jab of his fingers to the man's ribs, causing his opponent to yelp in pain and totter back; gripping his stinging side. Momentarily relieved of his battle, Holmes turned to fully face Watson.

"Now my dear Watson, you know as well as I that I did not bring my work with me. It merely followed me. And I'd appreciate it if you –"

His sentence was cut short as the man jumped forward with a furious cry and slammed into Holmes, grabbing the detective's legs and causing both men to tumble to the ground in a tangled mass of limbs. Holmes quickly detached himself and countered with a swift elbow to the man's spine as punishment for having interrupted him.

Watson sighed again and shook his head disapprovingly. He glanced over at the woman fidgeting beside him. Her eyes were open wide with pained horror as her husband lay gasping on the floor with a bruising back.

Her hand moved to her chest anxiously as her delicate fingers wrapped around the jewel that adorned her throat.

Watson recognized the jewel and knew that, until yesterday, the jewel had not been in the woman's possession. He knew because he and Holmes had been the two sent out to reclaim it. He also knew that it was because of that very case that Holmes was currently fighting the husband of the woman who had hired Holmes and Watson to find her missing necklace.

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**Yay! Another fanfic. I've been working on this one for a while and am pleased to finally be posting it. Just a forewarning: this fic is considerably longer than my others and shall be spanning over several chapters. **

**After reading the ****Sherlock Holmes**** novels, I felt considerably compelled to write my own case. Hope it's enjoyed. **

****Remember: take note of the date and time.****

**Until next time,  
Hoeby-ho!**


	2. Saturday, Jan 16, 3:32 pm

**Note the bold italics. It's a different date see? (I know many of you don't need to be reminded but it's a precaution I must take.)**

**The disclaimer I constantly forget to add: The Sherlock Holmes and John Watson personalities belong to Guy Rickie while the writing format – and all those really big words – as well as the original characters belong to Sir Arthur Cohan Doyle.**

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The Vengeful Jewel

_**Saturday, January 16, 1891  
3:32 p.m.**_

"Please, detective. I'll pay you any price."

Sherlock Holmes didn't bother to even turn around and face his potential client as she begged. He stood silently at the window, gazing down at the dreary, mud-stained streets of Baker Street with his pipe clutched loosely between his teeth; the smoke curling lazily up into the air.

His partner, assistant, soon-to-be former roommate, and most trusted friend, sat just as quietly in his chair, his calm blue gaze staring expectantly at the back of the detective. When Holmes made no move to respond, Watson turned back to face the woman wavering on the verge of tears before him.

Lady Katherine Jones was, by far, a most beautiful woman. And certainly wealthy. Her delicate frame was decorated with a rather low-cut dress that fell to her ankles. Ribbons of lace crisscrossed in the dark blue fabric, making the dress ripple and shimmer with her movements. Her golden blonde hair – with just the faintest sparkle of red – dangled in ringlets at her shoulders and framed her perfectly oval face, making her freckles stand out against her pale skin. She was a small creature, brimming with composed grace and elegance. A single wedding band adorned the finger on her left hand.

But it was a different piece of jewelry that she craved. And that desire led her to the home of the famous detective.

She clasped her hands before her in prayer, her pleading eyes moist as she gazed at Holmes' back. "Please, Mr. Holmes. You're the only one who can find my necklace."

"With the amount I demand for my services, I suggest merely buying a new necklace," Holmes declared impassively. He plucked the pipe out from between his lips and blew out a ring of smoke.

"There is no replacement for such an item," Mrs. Jones insisted. "That jewel was a gift from my mother. It had been given to her by her mother on her death bed. Sadly, it was passed on to me in the same fashion."

She lowered her gaze at the memory and a sparkling tear rolled down her cheek. "My grandfather had found it in the stream and had polished it for my grandmother. They had to leave their home to keep it otherwise it would have been stolen at the cost of their lives."

She blinked and looked back at Holmes with renewed determination burning brilliantly in her eyes. Watson felt a stab of pity strike his heart but he knew Holmes would not subject to it as easily as he.

"It means so much to me and my family," Mrs. Jones continued softly. "I had hoped to one day pass it on to my daughter."

Being an open and warmed-hearted doctor, Watson was ready to agree to the case. It was a missing necklace. The case certainly wouldn't be a difficult one. And Holmes had lately been in such a foul mood with the absence of a good case. Granted this case was mediocre but it would get Holmes out of the house. It was also for a good cause. This woman genuinely wanted her family jewel back and not just for its physical value, but for its emotional one. And a value like that was priceless.

Again, Watson gave Holmes an expectant sidelong glance. Holmes hitched up his shoulders in an attempt to ward off the pleading gaze that pierced his back.

A soft rustling of fabric caused Watson to look away from his friend and back to Mrs. Jones in time to see her stride gracefully past him. Surprised and curious, Watson watched as Mrs. Jones cautiously approached the brooding detective.

Gently, she extended a delicate hand and laid it upon Holmes' arm. The detective jumped with a start and turned to looked at the woman standing before him; his eyes instinctively examining her from head to foot. She drew herself up proudly with a great strength Watson hadn't known her capable of.

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Jones said with a patient tone, one Watson often used to get Holmes to listen and obey. "The price is irrelevant. Please, just find my necklace."

She reached out her hands to gently encase Holmes' hand within her small grasp, his hand proving far larger than her own. Her deep eyes of swirling green and brown gazed up at Holmes hopefully.

Dumbfounded and caught off guard, Holmes stood absolutely still, his smoking pipe balancing in his free hand. He was unable to break the spell cast by those burning eyes.

"All right," he said finally. "I accept, my lady. I will retrieve your necklace."

Mrs. Jones' face brightened instantly as she smiled, lighting up the room majestically.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes!" she exclaimed as she embraced him.

Startled, Holmes grunted and looked to Watson for help. The doctor merely smiled back at his friend warmly, proud of Holmes for agreeing to help the woman.

Mrs. Jones pulled away abruptly and offered Holmes one last grateful smile before bounding away towards the door.

"Mrs. Jones," Holmes called after her.

She stopped at the door and looked back, the movement causing her hair to bounce alluringly against her shoulders. "Yes?"

"Might I ask what perfume you're wearing? It has a most unusual scent."

"My sister gave it to me," Mrs. Jones answered. "I'm afraid it has a most lingering smell. It's been two days now and yet the smell still remains."

"And when did you lose your prized jewel?"

"Two days ago."

"I see. Then that is all."

Mrs. Jones nodded gratefully. "Thank you!" she said once more in her melodious voice and then hurried down the stairs to her waiting carriage.

With the cheerful woman no longer present, the room felt oddly forlorn and dark. Watson shivered involuntarily.

Homes shuffled up to stand beside him. The doctor looked up at him with a knowing smirk.

"So the great Sherlock Holmes has a heart after all," Watson teased.

"What did I just agree to?" Holmes asked.

"To find a necklace for a young woman," Watson answered nonchalantly.

"I thought so," Holmes mused. "It seems as if a witch has been in out presence, my dear fellow."

"A witch?"

"Isn't it painfully obvious? We both know fully well that I would never agree to such a fool-hearty assignment. Anyone with an intelligence as vast as mine could easily deduce that the necklace was taken by the sister. The very sister that had given her that perfume she was wearing. She must have put me under a spell."

"Very few are privileged to have a mind as brilliant and insane as yours," Watson scoffed. "And with what could Mrs. Jones have placed a spell on you?"

"Those eyes," Holmes replied ominously. "She possessed me."

"Are you sure you were looking at her eyes?" Watson said coyly, a taunting smile twitching on his lips. He glanced up at Holmes pointedly.

"I'm appalled, my dear Watson," Holmes exclaimed with exaggerated surprise. "To think a man on the verge of marriage with such a filthy mind exists within your soul!"

"Oh, stop," Watson chastised, slapping Holmes' arm. "Don't use me as your topic change. You agreed because you actually wanted to help that woman."

Holmes seemed to think about such a possibility for a moment. "No," he said with finality. "I was definitely possessed."

"You don't believe in witchcraft," Watson corrected, getting up to stand before his friend.

"Don't I?"

Watson sighed, clearly having no desire to continue an argument that would ensue until Holmes twisted the conversation to turn in his favor. He turned away from the detective and retrieved his coat and hat, donning both and smoothing the fabric until he found himself presentable and then took up his cane.

"Where are you going?" Holmes asked suspiciously, edging closer towards the doctor so as to not be left behind.

"Out to go looking for a lost necklace," Watson replied with a casually grin. "Care to join me, Holmes?"

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**I have admit, after reading those ****Sherlock Holmes**** novels, the diction stuck. It comes out naturally. **

**Well, now the case is explained and so begins. **

**But this is how the fanfic works: present, past, present, past, etc. So please remember the date and time so you know what is happening when. **

**Until next time (and please keep reading. I'm rather proud of this one)  
Hobey-Ho!**

**P.S.: Comments help the writing process tremendously. I do love the "encouragement."**


	3. Tuesday, Jan 19, 9:53 am

The Vengeful Jewel

_**Tuesday, January 19, 1891  
9:53 a.m.**_

Watson blinked to find that he was still staring at the necklace clasped firmly in Mrs. Jones' hands as she continued to watch the fight between Sherlock Holmes and her husband.

Watson followed her gaze to the wrestling men, now locked together by gripping the others' shoulders. Holmes gained the advantage by slowing pushing his opponent back towards the wall.

"Don't hurt him," Watson called to the experienced boxer. "He's not trained for a beating like you are."

"Don't you think I know that," Holmes snapped back curtly with a slight exertion. "For the lady's sake too. Can't have her taking home a beaten husband."

Mr. Jones seemed to only grow more furious at the fact that Holmes was addressing someone else and talking about his wife while at the same time pinning him up against the wall. And with anger, came strength.

Mr. Jones pulled Holmes towards him. Taken off balance, the detective stumbled forward as Jones pulled free of his grasp. Before Holmes could recover, Jones grabbed the back of the detective's head and closed the distance between Holmes' forehead and the wall. A thunderous sound echoed through the room as Holmes' head cracked against the wall.

Dazed, Holmes stumbled back, holding a hand to his bruising head. Without missing a beat, Mr. Jones extended his foot into Holmes' chest and the detective flew back into his table of experiments.

Glass vials and bottles cascaded down as he fell to the ground, the glass shattering around him. Flasks of liquid tipped and spilled onto the carpet, narrowly missing the detective's exposed arms. Lucky thing too as Watson noticed a thin tendril of smoke rise from the carpet accompanied by the smell of burning fabric.

Holmes hesitated for a moment as he watched the sizzling carpet. Mr. Jones sauntered closer, clearly enjoying his sudden victory over his seemingly advantaged adversary. Watson too took a step closer, ready to assist his friend if things did happen to prove dangerous for the detective.

"I've been working on that for nearly a week," Holmes suddenly said soberly, making Jones stop with surprise. "And now Nanny will have Watson restrict my experiments again."

Holmes looked up with a glower at Mr. Jones, causing the larger man to take a step back.

"I say my good man, mind if we take this into Watson's room? There are less objects to cause injury in there," Holmes offered hopefully with a politeness that made Jones shake with anger.

Holmes leaned against the table languidly; patiently waiting for an answer. But the reply didn't come from Jones' mouth.

"Stay out of my room, Holmes," Watson said firmly.

Holmes tilted his head in the doctor's direction. "But if we fight here, I may lose more chemicals. And what if he breaks my violin? You'll be moving out soon anyway, what with marrying your woman and all. Technically the room is already mine."

"Since _I_ still live here, this is still _our_ home which makes that _my _room which means _you_ are not allowed to go rushing in there to fight. Understood?" Watson said sharply, proving that the only choice Holmes had was to agree.

"Then what do I do with him?" Holmes asked. "You may not be affected, but this fight has become rather dull and obtuse."

"Hey!"

Holmes ignored the exclamation for attention from Jones and kept his eyes on Watson.

"Take him outside," Watson said with a wave of his hand.

"HEY!" Jones roared as he marched over to Holmes. He grabbed the detective by the lapels and lifted Holmes off the floor and into the air.

"And I dare say that I heard you the first time," Holmes declared simply, gripping the man's wrists to help support his weight. "I just didn't care."

With that said, Holmes snapped out his hands and slapped them against the sides of Jones' head, his open palms slamming against Jones' ears.

Jones cried out in pain and dropped Holmes to claw at his ringing ears.

"Outside it is," Holmes muttered aloud.

Eyes burning with a flaming rage, Jones lunged at Holmes. The detective danced away lightly, taunting the man until Jones made another lunge. Holmes repeated the taunting action, slowly leading Jones towards the stairs that led to the first floor.

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**To ensure there is no confusion whatsoever, I shall put all comments down here at the end of the chapter. **

**So, thank you for those who reviewed my fanfic thus far and another thanks for all those who have read – and are reading – it. I'm glad I've captured some attention and thinking minds. **

**I hope I've captured the diction and dialogue of Holmes and Watson correctly. The novels have them speaking in such elaborate phrases. That's what I aim for. **

**Well then, keep reading and reviews are always appreciated and anticipated.  
Hobey-Ho**


	4. Sunday, Jan 17, 1:15 pm

"_It's all fun and games, until someone gets hurt."_

_- various people and the moral for this chapter._

The Vengeful Jewel

_**Sunday, January 17, 1891  
1:15 p.m.**_

"And you're positive that it was the sister?" Watson asked once more with obvious skepticism aimed at the man sitting across from him in the carriage.

"Quite so," Holmes replied breezily, his hands tucked languidly in his pockets.

"But you haven't even met the sister," Watson protested.

"A true fact that is, my dear Watson, but I saw the answer during the visit of Mrs. Jones and a little extra research only confirmed my deductions," Holmes replied proudly. "Today's visit will merely provide the proof."

"How?" Watson asked incredulously. "I was in the same room as you, saw the same Mrs. Jones, and heard the same words she spoke. Yet how is it that you have already come to a conclusive answer while I am still in the dark?"

"You say you saw and heard everything during Mrs. Jones visit?"

"Everything."

"You saw. But did you observe?"

"Observing is the same as witnessing is it not?"

"Why my dear Doctor, the two are different by far."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"Seeing as we have another five minutes until reaching our destination, I suppose I could spare an explanation."

Sherlock Holmes leaned forward to place his elbows on his knees; touching his fingertips together. He looked at Watson keenly as the carriage rumbled forward; the gray streets of London passing unnoticed by the windows.

"You see, Watson, by seeing or witnessing, you only examine the superficial layer of a thing. But by observing, you can dissect the object to find the holistic meaning within it."

Satisfied with his answer, Holmes leaned back smugly in his seat.

"That's your answer?" Watson asked disappointedly. "We still have another four minutes and forty-five seconds."

"Then I suggest _observing_ the surroundings," Holmes replied with a flickering smile. "Never know when we're going to need an emergency exit. Knowing the emergency exit of another is helpful as well."

"You're incorrigible," Watson grunted as he leaned back into his seat.

Holmes chuckled lightly.

The remainder of the ride passed in silence as both Holmes and Watson gazed out the windows of the carriage, both mapping the streets in their heads in case such a map would be needed. At last, they arrived at their destination, paid the driver, and started for the front door.

The house was commonly ordinary. No lawn decorated its front and the steps that led to the door were made of wood. The bricks that constructed the building were old and cracked. A window shutter hung loose in its place. The house was in poor shape and seemed in no hurry to be fixed.

It was here that Mrs. Katherine Jones' sister resided.

Holmes and Watson ascended the steps, Watson's cane echoing dully against the creaking wood, and the detective rapped his fist against the door swiftly.

Footsteps sounded from behind the door and several locks slid out of place.

"Now, my dear Watson, I will prove that this sister is the current holder of Mrs. Jones' beloved jewel."

The door opened to reveal a rather tall and ungainly woman. A protruding belly stuck out slightly from her frame as well as the muscles that lined her arms. Her disheveled wispy, red hair was tied back loosely in a bun. She was certainly taller and fuller than her sister and lacked the same elegance and grace that the former possessed.

"Ms. Chloe Merrimirt?" Holmes asked with an air of someone who already knew whom he was addressing.

Chloe glared out at the two men with suspicious disdain and then her eyes suddenly widened with recognition and fright. She slammed the door shut and the locks bolted back in place to be followed by the flurried sound of running feet.

Holmes looked to Watson with a triumphant smirk.

Watson rolled his eyes. "All right. You were right. Can we go after her now?"

"As you wish, Doctor," Holmes agreed and unceremoniously kicked the door open.

Holmes bolted through the door first with Watson fast on his heels. Holmes didn't bother to look around but rather ran straight for an ancient staircase built from clay into the side of the house. The sound of something moving came from above.

"She's trapped herself," Watson said aloud as he followed Holmes up the stairs.

"Then this case just became that much easier," Holmes concurred as he reached the top floor and stopped. Watson came up to stop beside him.

It was strangely quiet now. The hallway spread for a short distance with two doors each standing along the sides.

"She's in here somewhere," Watson murmured, his sharp eyes weaving back and forth among the four doors.

"And our jewel with her," Holmes replied as he slowly moved forward.

He approached the first door on the left side cautiously as Watson took his place on the first door on the right. As one, they threw open the doors and rushed inside to search through the various tables and chairs. Everything was covered in a dusty white cloth and was devoid of any signs that someone actually used the rooms.

Finding no sign of the sister, Holmes and Watson moved to the second line of doors and repeated their actions.

Watson stepped into a bedroom that didn't contain the same covered furniture but a recently used bed. A small fireplace was built into the wall and a pile of cold ashes lay in its hearth. A table and mirror stood on the other side with an assortment of accessories and make up.

Watson moved closer to examine the jewelry laid out on the table; the gems casting rippling rings of light against the table from the sunlight provided by a single window. He bent down to peer closer at the jewels.

Priceless rubies and intricately cut diamonds gazed back at him. Judging by the fact that such rich jewels resided in such a poor house, Watson concluded that Mrs. Jones' necklace was not the first jewel to be stolen by Ms. Merrimirt. The woman was a seemingly accomplished thief and here were all her spoils, not doubt waiting to be sold for a better life.

Watson straightened and was prepared to report his findings to Holmes when he happened by chance to look into the mirror that hung over the table.

His eyes widened at the sight of a woman looming behind him with a fire poker grasped firmly in her hands.

Watson turned abruptly and lifted his hands to defend himself just in time to see the glinting bronze rush towards him.

Cold metal collided with his temple and his head snapped to the side with a gasp. All he could see was white as he felt his body collapse heavily to the ground and a dull pounding started in his temples. He blinked several times and was able to make out a shadowy figure running for the door.

Ms. Merriment didn't make it far.

Before she could even reach the door, Sherlock Holmes was standing before her. Standing at his full height, he towered menacingly over her, his cold dark eyes glaring at her with a burning hate.

With a cry, Chloe raised the metal staff to strike at the detective but Holmes' reaction was faster. His hand moved in a blur and gripped the poker; tearing the staff out of the woman's hands and throwing it aside as he would an extinguished cigarette.

The woman sniveled in fear and withdrew as Holmes stepped forward, pushing her further back into the room. The bed hit the back of her legs and she fell back onto it; her scared eyes never leaving Holmes.

"You will stay where you are," Holmes ordered in a seething voice. "If you move, I will have the police take you to Scotland Yard within your next breath."

Chloe swallowed audibly and sank further into the bed; her shivering form proving that she would obey.

Satisfied that his query would remain where she sat, Holmes hurried to Watson's side.

The doctor was moaning on the floor as the full-blown headache hit him. His hand was pressed tightly against the left side of his face. His eyes were tightly closed to escape from the dancing black dots that swam before his eyes.

"You all right, Old Boy?" Holmes asked gently, tapping his friend's unscathed cheek.

Watson turned in the direction of the voice and blearily opened his eyes, blinking back the reflexive tears and squinting past the dots.

"I think I'm losing my touch," he muttered drily.

"You have been leading a fairly pampered life with me," Holmes replied with a sigh of relief.

Watson laughed at the sarcasm but grimaced as the action agitated his throbbing head.

"Did you get her?" he asked weakly.

"Yes. Now let me look at that," Holmes ordered gently as he eased Watson's hand away from his face.

A thin gash marred Watson's temple and cut into his brow. Blood trickled slowly from the wound, dripping down over Watson's eyelid to curve around his eye. Holmes used his thumb to carefully remove the blood, much to Watson's discomfort.

"You'll live," Holmes stated confidently.

"Thank you, Doctor," Watson muttered; words dripping with sarcasm. But his smile was sincere.

Smiling gently, Holmes stood and helped Watson to his feet, offering the staggering man support as they moved to stand before Chloe.

"Can you see?" Holmes asked, experienced enough with head injuries to know that vision could be slightly impaired if inflicted with one.

Watson blinked. "Well enough."

Holmes reached forward – disregarding Chloe's cringing form – and removed from her tightly bound hair, a dazzling red ruby fastened into the body of a hair clip. Chloe's fiery hair fell round her shoulders as Holmes lifted the hair ornament for Watson to see.

"Then allow me to reveal to you the missing jewel of Mrs. Katherine Jones."

**_._._._._._._**

**That little quote at the beginning was just to show that this fanfic isn't all about humor. There's some violence and seriousness in here too. You'll see more of that in later chapters. **

**Anywho, I wanted to give a shoutout or two while I have your attention:**

**I am quite honored and surprised that one of my readers would scar her – I'm pretty sure she's a her, judging by her profile – teacher for the me. Thanks so much ****Isis the Sphinx**** for your review. **

**And ****Siibi**** for making me laugh with a review about you laughing. ^_^**

**And a thanks to ****Uncanny-dreamer**** for setting my mind at ease with your compliment and assurance. **

**And there's an ****Anonymous**** person out there – I hope you know who you are – that gave a rather exceptional review and a beautiful compliment. I don't know who you are o' whisper in the night; figure of the shadows, but thank you so much for the review. **

**Thanks to all my readers and reviewers. I love reading your thoughts. It really makes my day. **

**Until next time then,  
Hobey-Ho!**


	5. Tuesday, Jan 19, 9:56 am

The Vengeful Jewel

_**Tuesday, January 19, 1891  
9:56 a.m.**_

A creaking of wood alerted Watson that the fight had moved to the top of the stairs. He moved out of Holmes' room to stand at the doorway, Mrs. Jones already at his side as they watched the scene at the stairs.

Holmes had finally navigated Jones to the stairs. Now all he had to do was get the man down so that his opponent could be led outside.

Holmes delivered a swift flick of his fingers against Jones' forehead. Jones snarled angrily and slashed his hands at Holmes. The detective deflected the attack with light slaps.

"This is really too easy, my good man," Holmes said with a cheerful casualness. "But, since you are my guest here, I must insist that you descend first." Holmes bowed, adding insult to injury.

Jones' face turned a most violent red as he fumed at the action. His eyes darted to his wife standing beside Watson. But her eyes were watching Holmes with a bemused fascination at the prospect of such a well-mannered man who voluntarily offered advantages to his much less skilled opponent.

The very thought sent Jones bombarding into Holmes. As one, the men tottered over the threshold and tumbled down the steps.

Amid the thuds and clatter of bodies hitting the wooden steps, several streams of curses rose from the revolving forms although it was impossible to tell from which mouth they came from.

At last, the two men hit the bottom floor and rolled to a stop: Holmes stopping near the bottom step and Jones against the far wall. Both men groaned painfully and twitched on the floor due to a new arsenal of bruises and a few possible sprains.

Watson stood warily on the top step, looking down at both bodies as they writhed on the floor. Neither looked to have been seriously hurt. Merely fairly battered to the point of partial, temporary immobility.

Holmes had managed to claw his way into a sitting position, his back leaning heavily against the bottom step. This seemed to be the extent of his movement for he was unable to do anything more other than to sit gasping on the floor.

Jones was in a similar condition and he forced himself to lie on his side so that he could still glare daggers at Holmes. He too breathed laboriously but not from serious injuries. Rather from exhaustion.

The two men stared at each other from where they lay; catching their breaths as Watson watched with a careful gaze. Mrs. Jones stood frozen where she stood; her sympathetic heart going out to both of the battered men.

**_._._._._._._**

**Short one this time. **

**Next chapter will explain just why Mr. Jones is attacking Holmes. Hope you're not getting bored.**

**Thank you for the compliments. Your opinions really mean a lot. Really. I love logging on to see a new review. So, I await further reviews. **

**Until next chapter,  
Hobey-Ho**


	6. Monday, Jan 18, 11:00 am

The Vengeful Jewel

_**Monday, January 18, 1891  
11:00 a.m.**_

Sherlock Holmes knocked twice on the polished wood door and within seconds, it opened to reveal the enthusiastic form of Katherine Jones.

Her eyes lit up beautifully as her lips spread in an ecstatic smile.

"I received your wire," she said, never losing her smile. "You're right on time."

"We do make a point to be punctual," Holmes said as he politely removed his hat from his head.

"Please do come in," Mrs. Jones insisted as she moved aside for her guests. Holmes entered first with Watson following faithfully behind him. Mrs. Jones left her post at the door to lead her guests into the house; leaving the maid to close the door after them.

The partners followed Mrs. Jones into a lavish sitting room consisting of plush chairs, decorated cushions, and a slim coffee table already covered in various foods and drink. A few bustling maids laid down the last dishes of food and bowed to their lady before moving to stand at the edge of the room in case their assistance was needed.

"Please sit," Mrs. Jones urged as she took her place on one of the silken couches. She smiled up at her guests invitingly.

"I'm afraid we can't stay long, my lady," Holmes said. "We only came to deliver what was requested. Then my friend and I must leave for we have another appointment to attend to."

Mrs. Jones seemed to not have heard the rest of Holmes' words. At the mention of the requested delivery, she was already up on her feet and standing hopefully in front of Holmes.

"You found it?" she asked in awe, her wide eyes gazing up jovially at Holmes.

Holmes could do nothing else but smile and present the delicate jewel to its rightful owner.

Mrs. Jones stared at the small red ruby resting in Holmes' hand with wide eyes and mouth agape. She seemed unable to believe the sight at first. Slowly, she extended trembling hands to the jewel and wrapped her fingers around it gently. She held the jewel close to her face, her eyes examining it expertly and then she clasped it to her heart and her smiling gaze returned to Holmes.

"Thank you," she breathed.

"My pleasure, my lady," Holmes replied with a curt nod of his head.

Mrs. Jones looked at her beloved jewel once more.

"Sandy, please fetch Mr. Holmes his payment," she called, still gazing lovingly down at her jewel.

A maid detached herself from the far wall and trotted off out of the room. She returned quickly with a small satchel in her hands. Wordlessly, the maid handed the satchel to Mrs. Jones who, in turn, offered it to Holmes.

"10 sovereigns," she said, placing the bag in Holmes' hand.

"Most obliged," Holmes said with another bow. He quickly pocketed the satchel. "And now, my lady, I must bid thee _adieu_."

Holmes replaced his hat and turned away to walk back towards the front door. Watson offered Mrs. Jones a last smile before he turned to follow after Holmes.

"Wait," Mrs. Jones called after them.

Holmes and Watson stopped at the open door, the detective's foot hovering in mid air. Mrs. Jones hurried towards them.

"From the bottom of my heart, thank you," she said with the upmost sincerity.

Still beaming her most attractive smile, she reached forward to grasp Watson's face between her small hands. She pulled him closer to kiss his cheeks.

Slightly flustered by the act, Watson bowed with a tip of his hat and stepped past Holmes to stand outside.

Mrs. Jones moved closer to Holmes, her deep swirling eyes of grass and earth locked on to Holmes' dark eyes.

"You brought what I hold most dear back to me," she said in a whisper.

"That's my job," Holmes said, fidgeting slightly where he stood. "And I take my job seriously."

Before he could say more, Mrs. Jones threw her arms around his neck and reached up to press her lips against his. Holmes froze. Watson blanched. And – surprisingly to both doctor and detective – Holmes rested his hands on Mrs. Jones' hips, dipping his head down slightly to meet the woman.

Mrs. Jones broke away slowly and slipped out of Holmes' grip with a flirtatious smile brightening her exquisitely beautiful features.

"Good day, Mr. Holmes," she said, reverting to a proper and polite tone.

Holmes cleared his throat. "Good day, Mrs. Jones," he said with the same level of professionalism.

Mrs. Jones bowed and retreated back into her home, closing the door lightly behind her.

Running a hand through his hair, Holmes stepped forward to join Watson. The doctor felt his mouth still hanging open but didn't have the muscle strength to close it.

Holmes sniffed indifferently and straightened his coat. "Now my dear Watson. I believe we have another appointment to uphold. And, as I said before, I make it a point to be punctual."

Without another word, or a second glance at his awestruck friend, or a backward glance at the home where the lovely lady of the house had snogged him, Holmes started to walk down the street, humming a most peculiar tune aloud.

Watson could do nothing else but follow.

Neither man noticed the gentleman that stepped out of the carriage that had been parked on the other side of the street. Nor did either man notice the gentleman glare after them with clenched fists.

Neither man noticed the vengeful look of absolute loathe that Mr. Robert Jones cast at Holmes' receding back.

**_._._._._._._**

**I always forget to do this. Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and all its characters belong to their creators A.C. Doyle and Guy Richie. I'm not worthy I guess. **

**I'm glad you all are enjoying the fighting scenes. I enjoyed writing them. But I must warn you, it's not all fun and games in the later chapters. Spoiler Alert! Once Holmes gets angry, he goes all out. Why does he get angry you may ask? Well, you'll have to keep reading. **

**As for shoutouts, I do want to say something to ****mildetryth****. You want to keep Holmes? Well join the club. We've got jackets. **

**Sorry if Holmes seemed a little out of character by returning the kiss but I'd doubt he'd be able to resist a kiss from a woman – you know, being a male and all. **

**So the jewel is returned but vengeance is haunting Holmes. Everything is coming together in time for the climax.**

**Until next time,  
Hobey-ho**


	7. Tuesday, Jan 19, 10:01 am

**Another day, another chapter. Judging by your comments, you haven't yet become bored with this fanfic yet. Glad you're still enjoying it. **

**I do want to give a shoutout to ****Lee**** for assuring me that Holmes was indeed **_**not**_** out of character. I'm glad for that. Thanks. **

**And a big thank you – and a hug if you'll accept it – to ****Creativity-On-Full**** for your beautifully written review. Your words are exceedingly appreciated and you've set my mind further at ease as to the OOC part. Your compliments mean a lot to me and made me smile. Thank you so much for your kind and encouraging review. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.**

**Thanks to all those that have and continue to read. And double thanks for leaving your thoughts in a review. Your opinions are part of making writing so enjoyable. **

**Now, enough talk, keep right on reading.**

The Vengeful Jewel

_**Tuesday, January 19, 1891  
10:01 a.m.**_

Having sufficiently regained their strength, Sherlock Holmes and Mr. Jones staggered to their feet, each using the nearest wall as a crutch.

Cringing from the pain in his ribs and spine, Holmes met Mr. Jones' glare as the other man clutched his sore arm.

Watson made his way cautiously down the stairs while Mrs. Jones stayed watchful on the second floor.

"Damage?" Watson asked, keeping a careful eye on Mr. Jones.

"Just some bruising," Holmes grunted.

"I wasn't talking to you," Watson countered. "I know you can handle yourself. You've sustained far worse injuries in the ring."

Watson ignored the hurt and chagrined expression on Holmes' face as he moved past the detective.

"You should let me look at that," Watson said gently to Mr. Jones, referring to the arm that Jones pressed close to his side. "It might be broken."

"John."

Watson was unable to ignore Holmes this time. The ominous warning resounded deeply in the single word. He glanced back at Holmes to see that the detective had straightened in preparation; the effect of his wounds forgotten. Holmes' eyes burned with the foreboding warning.

Watson turned his attention back to Jones. The man was tense as if ready to spring forward in an attack if provoked.

"It's all right, I'm a doctor." Watson assured as if talking to a cornered animal. "I just want to make sure it's not broken."

A cornered animal is most dangerous when angry.

Watson took a step closer and Jones reacted.

Jones launched himself at Watson, lashing out at the doctor with curled fists. His fist clipped Watson's jaw and then his body collided with Watson's. The breath burst out of Watson's lungs as his back slammed against the floor and Jones' weight fell over him; pinning him down.

Gasping loudly to catch his breath, Watson could only raise his arms to cover his head as Jones assaulted him with uncontrolled punches. An inhuman cry bubbled out of Jones' throat as he released his anger out on the man who couldn't protect himself. For too long he had been foiled by the detective and now that he finally had an opponent he knew he could beat, Jones was determined to take advantage of it. Blinded by that rage, Jones pummeled Watson with his fists.

Jones' relentless attacks ceased as quickly as they had started when a sharp and unexpected kick was delivered to his gut; his nose impacting painfully with the hard shin. The force of the kick sent him tumbling head over heels off of Watson and across the floor. He stopped and curled into a tight ball near the front door; pressing his hands to his bleeding nose.

Coughing, Watson turned onto his side. He felt a tentative hand land on his shoulder and then he was eased into a sitting position. His hands fell into his lap; his arms quivering from the blows they had taken. Luckily he had managed to block most of Jones' attacks but a few punches had managed to sneak past his defenses and he, unfortunately, found that his jaw was sore and the wound on his temple where he had been hit with the metal fire poker had reopened; blood trickling down into his eye.

He leaned back heavily against his support, breathing deeply to refill his dry lungs. "Thanks for that," he gasped gratefully.

Watson looked up to see the stoic figure of Sherlock Holmes crouched down beside him. The man had turned sober and glowered at the whimpering Jones with simmering eyes.

"He went too far," Holmes growled vehemently. "It's one thing to pick a fight with me but to drag you – a bystander – into the fray… That I won't stand for."

Leaving Watson sitting on the floor to recover, Holmes stood and placed himself protectively in front of his friend. His hard glare pierced Jones mercilessly. Mrs. Jones hurried down the stairs to kneel down beside Watson. She wiped her handkerchief across his wound and dabbed at the blood that dribbled over his eye.

"No more holding back. If this guy wants a real fight, I'll give it to him."

Watson looked up admirably at the strong back of his loyal friend and couldn't help but feel pride towards the virtuous man. Holmes knew when justice needed to be delivered and with what amount of force it was to be delivered with.

"This ends now."

**_._._._._._._**

**Don't mess with Watson. An angry Holmes is someone you don't want to deal with.**

**A climatic battle between Jones and Holmes is drawing closer. **

**Stay tuned,  
Hobey-Ho**


	8. Monday, Jan 18, 9:30 am

The Vengeful Jewel

_**Monday, January 18, 1891  
9:30 a.m.**_

A knocking at the door disrupted Watson's reading and he looked up from the newspaper.

Holmes wasn't so easily distracted, but rather continued to pluck incoherently at the strings of his violin as he lounged in his chair with his feet propped up on the table.

The knock sounded again; this time with more force.

Holmes flinched at the harsh sound and his fingers slipped, causing the violin to screech most unpleasantly. Watson cringed; the newspaper crinkling in his clenched hands.

Again, the sharp knocking sounded and continued incessantly.

"Oh, please answer the door," Holmes whined piteously. "That knocking is most obnoxious,"

"Are you expecting anyone?" Watson asked quizzically as he folded the paper and placed it aside to stand.

"No one in the least," Holmes answered as he sank further into his chair, "So tell whomever it is to kindly leave as it is too early in the morning for such an unwanted ruckus."

"Early? It's nearly noon, Holmes," Watson answered, glancing back at the detective as he placed his hand on the doorknob. The door vibrated under his fingers from the vehement pounding on the other side.

Holmes waved the fact away, silently commanding Watson to just open the door, send the intruder away, and return so that the peaceful quiet could ensue.

Watson turned away from Holmes to hide the roll of his eyes as he opened the door.

"Good morning, sir," he said politely to the man fuming outside, "but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave. If you wish for our services, I suggest –"

Watson was abruptly cut off as the man brusquely pushed his way past the doctor to plant himself firmly in the room. Perplexed – and startled by the rather rash action – Watson looked at the man; examining him as Holmes had taught him to.

The man was of tall statue with a pale complexion, meaning that his work reside within a building rather than outdoor labor. He was dressed richly so he was certainly well endowed and prosperous. Though somewhat slim, Watson could see the fine muscles that toned the man's body. He carried himself proudly in a professional manner as if he knew that he was a superior. Even now, he stood looming over Holmes at his full height; radiating confidence and… a more hazardous emotion.

Anger.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" the man spat with obvious disdain and disrespect.

"That depends on who's calling," Holmes replied coyly, still lounging lazily in his chair as he looked up impassively at the towering man.

The man bristled. Watson quietly closed the door and moved closer, his eyes shifting from Holmes to the man.

"Were you the one hired by Mrs. Katherine Jones to find a stolen jewel?" the man asked, his words sharpened with suspicion.

"Ah, yes, kind Mrs. Jones. I'm sure you'll be happy to hear that I have safely returned the jewel to her," Holmes replied breezily. "Why do you ask? Are you a friend of Mrs. Jones?"

"I'm Mr. Robert Jones," the man said lowly with an underlining growl.

Holmes blinked. "Ah… yes… Well, do tell the missus hello for me."

That was when Mr. Jones swung the fist punch.

And so the fight had begun. And Watson had done nothing to stop it. For he knew that Holmes deserved it. To return the kiss of another man's wife. Yes, he definitely deserved it.

He watched silently as the two fought, Holmes leading the dance and Jones growing all the more frustrated.

Ironically, another knock had sounded at the door and Mrs. Jones rushed into the room to find the detective and her husband locked in battle.

And now here he was. He was still watching; doing nothing as Holmes faced Jones. Mrs. Jones tended to his bleeding wound but he paid her little attention. His eyes remained focused on the man standing protectively before him.

Jones stirred and looked up to glower at Holmes. He wiped the blood from his nose onto the back of his hand and stood to face Holmes directly.

Both men were furious now. Although their anger was basically centered around the same reason, said reasons were slightly different.

Jones was fighting for his dignity and honor; to reclaim the woman he had married and then witnessed kiss another man.

Holmes was fighting to avenge the injury Jones had inflicted upon Watson.

Neither man would back down.

"I'm all right," Watson insisted, waving away Mrs. Jones worried hands. "Can you please open the front door." It was an order. "And my cane too please, if you will."

Mrs. Jones stared at Watson with bemusement but found it best not to argue at this point. She stood gracefully and edged around the two men to open the door. Then she backed away just as cautiously, retrieved Watson's cane from where he had dropped it during his assault, and then returned to the doctor's side; all the time keeping her fearful gaze on the two statues of men.

"Remember, Holmes," Watson said simply, his eyes still locked onto that strong back as he slipped his fingers around the neck of his cane.

"I know," Holmes nodded evenly. "Outside."

"I have your back."

"No. It is like you said. This is my fight."

**_._._._._._._**

**And now we are completely in the present. No more flashbacks. **

**As always, my gratitude extends to my readers. Thank you for your reviews. I do very much enjoy them. **

**I'm glad to see so much eagerness for a pissed Holmes. His battle's up next. **

**Until next time,  
Hobey-Ho**


	9. Tuesday, Jan 19, 10:02 am

The Vengeful Jewel

_**Tuesday, January 19, 1891  
10:02 a.m.**_

Neither man moved; barely breathing. Both were waiting for the other to strike first.

Watson was helped to his feet by Mrs. Katherine Jones and leaned on his cane for the extra support. The doctor made sure to keep Mrs. Jones safely behind him just in case. The back of his partner and friend was still facing him, and beyond that was the darkened expression of Mr. Robert Jones.

Time seemed to stand still and the silence became deafening as the two men faced off. Watson could practically see the sparks of tensions flaring between the two.

Mr. Jones blinked.

In the next second, Sherlock Holmes was standing before him. Startled, Jones stepped back but recovered quickly enough to throw the first punch. Holmes knocked the blow away and delivered a firm punch to the man's diaphragm. Jones gasped and staggered back. Holmes moved forward to strike again but Jones ducked and performed a swift uppercut to Holmes' jaw. The detective leaned back to avoid the hit but Jones' knuckles managed to scrape his chin. Jones aimed for Holmes' exposed neck and Holmes reacted by jabbing his fingers into the soft inside of Jones' elbow. Jones cried out in pain and his arm fell limply to his side. Another punch to the gut from Holmes forced Jones to step out of the building and onto the front steps.

Watson edged closer, his wide eyes recording each attack and calculating the consequential damage done. Mrs. Jones shuffled behind him, her shaking hands gripping the sleeve of his arm. Never before had she seen such brutal actions performed in such a skilled and precise manner.

Jones retreated down a step as Holmes charged at him with a right hook. Jones ducked and the punch abruptly changed into a backhanded push that sent Jones stumbling down the last steps to stop on the sidewalk. Holmes followed him down, his punches fending off any counter from Jones.

Within seconds, both men were standing face-to-face on the sidewalk. Holmes was tense in an experienced fighting stance, his hands up; ready to attack or block. Jones stood just as prepared: one hand close to his face in defense and the other facing out toward Holmes. Despite their seemingly offensive positions, Watson's trained eye could clearly see that both men were edging closer to exhaustion; Jones more than Holmes. Sweat beaded their brows but did nothing to extinguish the burning fire that blazed brightly in their eyes.

A few spectators noted the confrontation in front of 221B of Baker Street but decided it was best to hurry on and disregard such an occurrence. Ignorance was, indeed, bliss, Watson concluded as he watched the dispersing pedestrians from his spot on the top step. Mrs. Jones peeked out from behind his arm, fascination glimmering in her eyes. It was all so excitedly frightening.

Slowly, Holmes eased out of his fighting stance and straightened. "You are outside now, Mr. Jones," he said coldly with a threatening edge to the words. "I suggest you return home with your wife at this time."

"Coward," Jones spat. "Can't even finish a fight."

"My fight with you established within my quarters and so was destined to continue as long as you dwelt within those walls. But it now ends here for we are no longer in my quarters," Holmes explained with a cold calm. "It is not cowardice to end a fight at the disliking of the opponent. We are out of the ring, and thus, out of the fight."

Jones bristled at Holmes' collected composure. His body shook with the contained rage. Holmes eyed him coolly like a parent silently berating a stubborn child.

"Kindly take your leave," Holmes commanded, "and take note that I don't like to repeat myself."

Holmes stepped forward calmly and Jones tensed. But Holmes had already disregarded Jones' existence. Instead, he stopped at the steps and looked up at Watson and Mrs. Jones.

"I'm sorry your visit was displeasing," Holmes said to Mrs. Jones. "And I'm sorry that your visit must end before getting better, but I think it is time for you to leave with your husband."

Mrs. Jones pushed past Watson to fully face Holmes. "I'm sorry for my husband's behavior," she said sincerely. "Perhaps my next visit will be of better temperament."

"Nothing would please me more, my lady."

And Mrs. Jones smiled. A smile of such lovely disposition and pure, exceeding warmth. But this smile was aimed solely at Holmes. Not once did her gaze flicker to her husband standing like a fool with his hands still raised in preparation to fight.

And he knew it.

An angry cry tore Holmes' attention away from Mrs. Jones as he turned in time to see Jones lunge at him. The man collided into Holmes, sending the detective falling backwards. A dull crack sounded as Holmes's head crashed against the concrete sidewalk. A searing white flared across his vision as his body screamed with pain.

He opened his mouth to release a cry but his voice was abruptly cut short as strong fingers laced around his throat.

Holmes instinctively gripped the wrists at his chest and tried to unfasten the tightening fingers around his neck but his strength and coordination deteriorated with his concussion. His eyes fluttered open momentarily to see the enraged expression of Mr. Jones glaring down at him with a look in his eyes that wasn't there before.

He meant to kill.

Holmes choked and his eyes reflexively closed.

Suddenly, the grip around his throat loosened and Holmes felt fresh air trickle back into his lungs. He inhaled deeply and pried his eyes open.

A figure was beside him where there had previously been none.

John Watson was standing over his fallen friend; his cane-knife at the throat of Mr. Jones. Jones stared back at him with surprised fear, his numb fingers loose around Holmes' throat.

"Let. Him. Go," Watson said lowly, the words coming out sharply from between his clenched teeth; the cold metal flush against Jones' sudden pale skin.

Jones slowly released Holmes and lifted his hands submissively into the air. Watson's icy blue eyes searched Jones. Satisfied that the man would not strike again, he withdrew the blade. Jones fell back, pushing himself away from the doctor that glared at him with such piercing daggers. Mrs. Jones hurried to his side.

"Mrs. Jones," Watson said in a hard tone. "Kindly take your leave now. I don't want another fight to break out."

Mrs. Jones looked at Watson and saw that if another fight were to instigate it would be between Watson and Jones. And Watson would win.

She nodded obediently and helped her husband to his feet. Jones stayed silent, his eyes downcast and focused on his feet. He had lost and the shame was heavy on his shoulders.

"I do apologize," Mrs. Jones said with a bow to Watson and Holmes. "Thank you for finding my necklace. Good day."

Without another word, she turned and led her husband down the street to hail a carriage.

Watson watched them go silently. When the two had entered a carriage and rattled out of sight, Watson finally sheathed his blade back into his cane and turned to face Holmes. He knelt down beside his friend and touched his hand to Holmes' rising and falling chest

The detective was laying flat on his back, breathing evenly with his eyes closed. It looked as if he had simply fallen asleep. Watson cringed at the sight of the black, blue, and purple that started creeping up around Holmes' face and neck. There would be plenty more all over the dark-haired man's body and the probability that Holmes' would be sore the next day was high.

"Holmes," Watson called gently.

"I thought you said it was my fight," Holmes replied casually with his eyes still closed.

Watson sighed. Not even a beating could diminish Holmes' stubborn pride.

"I recall you saying that the fight was justified while residing in the rooms," Watson countered in the same tone. "_That_ was your fight. Outside, it was fair game."

"Right so," Holmes congratulated. "I cannot argue with that logic."

"Give it time," Watson smiled, "I'm sure you'll find a loophole."

Holmes slowly opened his eyes and his dark irises stared up languorously at the sky brightening with the promise of the approaching afternoon.

"Thanks for that," he said finally in a quiet voice.

Watson chuckled. "Consider us even."

Holmes grunted in reply.

"Come on, then," Watson urged. "Let's get you inside before our neighbors call for the police."

Watson carefully maneuvered Holmes into a sitting position and pulled the detective's arm over his shoulder. As one, they stood and Watson placed his other hand around Holmes' waist while still gripping the neck of his cane. Together, they wobbled back up the steps and inside. It was painstakingly tedious to get up the stairs with Holmes' weakening movements and Watson was soon dragging his friend up the stairs rather than guiding.

At last they made it back into their rooms and Watson eased Holmes into the detective's favorite armchair. Before Watson could even start his diagnostic of Holmes' condition, Holmes had reached for his pipe and lit it. He inhaled deeply and blew out a ring of smoke with a tired sigh as he sank into the chair.

"I believe I've earned a decent rest," Holmes declared groggily.

"No, Holmes," Watson ordered firmly, slapping the detective's cheek to wake him. "You hit your head pretty hard. You probably have a concussion."

Holmes turned his head to face Watson "I believe I can safely access whether or not I have a concussion," he said nonchalantly with a snide sniff.

"I'm over here, Holmes."

Holmes turned away from the table he had been addressing to look at the real Watson. "Ah. Watson, I believe I have a concussion," Holmes admitted carelessly. "I think I'll just sleep it off. Like a hangover."

"Holmes. This is serious. Since you do have a concussion, you can't fall asleep."

"But I'm tired; exhausted even," Holmes whined.

Watson lightly slapped his face again. "No sleeping, Holmes. Not until I determine that it's safe."

Holmes waved away the doctor's hands but kept his eyes open. He took another long drag on his pipe and blew the smoke up into the air to watch it swirl and collect in a curling cloud at the ceiling.

"Why don't you tell me have you solved the case?" Watson offered, gathering his medical bag in preparation to treat Holmes.

"You haven't solved it for yourself yet?" Holmes asked incredulously. "My dear Watson, I'm disappointed."

Watson frowned as he shifted through his bag. Holmes glanced at the doctor's change in mood and then looked back to the ceiling ruefully.

"But I suppose I can release my findings to you."

"I would be grateful if you did. And I'll tend to your wounds while you explain."

"If it's the doctor's order," Holmes sighed.

"Please begin," Watson said as he carefully unbuttoned Holmes' shirt and peeled away the cloth to examine the bruising underneath.

"Where would you like me to start?" Holmes asked, allowing Watson to completely remove his shirt.

"The beginning would be best," Watson answered. "At Mrs. Jones' arrival."

"Very well," Holmes nodded and removed the pipe from his mouth to begin as Watson started his examination of the bruised and battered man before him.

**_._._._._._._**

**Brought a little of the humor back with Holmes' concussion. Poor guy, talking to a table and all. **

**So, how did Holmes know it was the sister who had stolen the necklace when he hadn't even met her? What did he see in the sister's house? How did he know where the jewel was?**

**All questions will be answered in the next chapter so stay tuned,  
Hobey-Ho**


	10. Tuesday, Jan 19, 10:37 am

The Vengeful Jewel

_**Tuesday, January 19, 1891  
10:37 a.m.**_

It was nearing midday and the sun was still climbing into the sky; its warm rays of light piercing through the thick fog that perpetually covered London's sky. Down below, people walked down Baker Street either due to an errand or just to walk out in the open air. Markets were open and children were out playing in the streets.

No one paid any acknowledgement to the silent building of 221B of Baker Street. Only two people currently resided in the flat with the absence of the landlady who, much like everyone else, had gone out to perform her errands.

These two men sat alone in one of the unkempt rooms; the windows thrown wide open to offer the stagnant room fresh air and light: a man with dark hair and dark eyes resting on a big armchair; shirtless but clothed in the black and blue of bruises. The other knelt before him, examining said bruises with the experienced blue eyes of a doctor.

The previous removed the clay pipe from his mouth in preparation to speak to the latter who listened with intent interest.

"As you are well aware, Mrs. Katherine Jones visited us here three days ago on Saturday," Sherlock Holmes began, his eyes staring listlessly as the tendril of smoke from his pipe floated up towards the ceiling and disappeared. "What was it that you noticed about her?"

John Watson didn't look up from his examination. His sharp eyes peered closely at the colored bruises and swollen flesh that marred the detective's body. "Judging by her attire, I concluded that she was an aristocrat of pure blood. She was married and was treated well both financially and domestically. She appeared a little shorter than the average height of a woman of her age but that seems irrelevant."

"Nothing is irrelevant, my good fellow," Holmes interjected. "But do continue. Anything else?"

"Her chest seemed to be slightly discolored. It was paler than her neck and face."

"Excellent! Quite right, Watson."

"But I don't know the explanation as to why."

"And here is where our case unfolds. Her chest was discolored because of an extra layer of powder that she had applied. And a woman's powder is always used to hide that which she does not want the public to see. Now, I was fortunate enough to witness it after she had embraced me. When she pulled away, some of the powder had rubbed off on my shirt. And my god, Watson! Your hands are freezing. Might you warm your fingers before continuing your examination?"

His visual examination complete, Watson had placed his hands on Holmes' ribcage to feel for swelling or tell-tale of more serious injury. At Holmes' exclamation, he had pulled away out of surprise but now returned his searching fingers to his friend's wincing form.

"No," he said simply, ignoring his friend's chagrined and pleading expression. "And stop that squirming. You might damage something further."

With an exasperated huff, Holmes settled in his seat. Watson glanced up him with a wry smile and the smallest flicker of apology.

"Do continue, Holmes," Watson urged, pressing the skin between the ribs to check for tissue or muscle damage.

Holmes grimaced but didn't argue. "Where was I?"

"You saw something when Mrs. Jones' powder rubbed off," Watson answered.

"Ah, yes. Her powder had rubbed off on my shirt and I was able to see what she had so painstakingly attempted to hide. On her chest was a ring of blistered and discolored flesh. It formed a ring around her neck like the shadow of a necklace. It was a chemical burn, in the exact same place I imagined her beloved necklace to have been.

"It also had a strange scent. Naturally, I asked her about it and – as you heard – she had recently received a perfume from her sister. I knew the burn was caused from some sort of substance hitting the skin. The perfume explained what had happened.

"Trusting her sister, Mrs. Jones had applied the perfume two days prior to her visit to me. But it was no ordinary perfume. It was some sort of chemical that reacted violently with the necklace that she wore on her person at all times – for it was a beloved piece. Being burned by her own jewelry, Mrs. Jones had taken off her necklace where it was promptly stolen. Now, the only person who could have possibly known when and where Mrs. Jones would take off her necklace was her sister."

"Ms. Merrimirt," Watson finished as his hands moved along Holmes' ribs to his sternum and solar plexus; checking for damage along the pectoralis major.

"Precisely," Holmes nodded. "And, after out little search together, I decided to do some more research privately while you rested. I found out that Mrs. Katherine Jones had a slightly younger spinster of a sister named Chloe Merrimirt. I acquired her address and did some investigating around her neighborhood for I knew that my conclusion would not be enough to satisfy the police. I would need proof.

"The neighbors were more than willing to tell me their grievances. Apparently, a few choice pieces of jewelry had been stolen over the course of the last year. Nearly everyone had had at least one jewel taken from them yet none mentioned Ms. Merrimirt as a victim. That was her first mistake, Watson: stealing too much in such close quarters. Eventually, she grew more confident and began stealing from a wider area. But it seemed as if she were never truly satisfied with her spoils. She wanted one specific jewel."

Watson nodded, following Holmes' deductions intently. His fingers moved over to Holmes' shoulder; along the deltoid, and stoked the bicep to check for damage. Then he continued down the length of the arm.

"Determined to steal the jewel that had purposefully alluded her hands due to the mother's dying wish to have her eldest daughter take ownership of the family jewel, Ms. Merrimirt devised an ingenious plan to take what she believed was rightfully hers. Hence the perfume and the missing jewel in the same day. Ow!"

Holmes abruptly pulled his hand out of Watson's probing fingers to rub his sore wrist. "Do be gentle, Doctor. I did fall down a flight of stairs after all."

Watson gently took the hand back and lightly felt around the wrist. "That does explain the sprain," he concluded and pulled from his bag a splint and bandages. "But what proof was there that pinned the creation of the perfume on Ms. Merrimirt?"

"I'm getting to that, my dear Watson. First let me tell you what was initially observed upon the arrival at Ms. Merrimirt's house.

"When the spinster first opened the door, you may have noticed that her hair was loosely bound with strands of hair falling out of the clip."

"I hadn't."

"I thought not. But, upon seeing her the second time after she had struck you, I saw that her hair was bound anew and tightly. I concluded that the jewel must have been in her hair; more specifically: her clip.

"As for the perfume, while you entered the room with the bed, I entered the other with the crude lab. The room was empty except for one large table containing used bottles of various chemical ingredients. She had left some of the completed formula in a bottle and the scent matched that of the one that clung to Mrs. Jones. It was the same chemical as that in the perfume that caused the burn on Mrs. Jones' chest.

"With the makeshift lab in her room and the jewel in her hair, I proved that my conclusion had been correct. Ms. Merrimirt had stolen the jewel of her sister."

"It seems so obvious now," Watson admitted as he finished splinting Holmes' wrist.

"The answer always does," Holmes replied.

"But what I don't understand is why Ms. Merrimirt didn't move out sooner," Watson mused as he moved on to examine Holmes' other arm. "She certainly had enough jewelry stocked up to buy a much better house in a richer neighborhood."

"She had though of moving, yes," Holmes said, testing the mobility of his bound wrist until Watson forced him to lower it back onto the arm of his chair. "If you recall, the first two rooms we searched were not in use and all the furniture was covered. She was probably preparing for such a move until we so subtly intervened."

"Speaking of which, Mrs. Jones didn't ask once about her sister," Watson added, glancing up at Holmes questioningly.

"Nor did I feel reason to tell her," Holmes said evenly. "She trusts her sister. That much is evident by her readiness to use the gift of perfume. I didn't want to tell her that it was that very same sister that had betrayed her to steal that jewel and who is now serving justice at Scotland Yard."

Watson nodded in sad understanding. Mrs. Jones had been so jovial at the prospect of reclaiming her jewel. And with the recent outbreak of her husband's temper, the mention of her imprisoned sister would do little to soothe her.

"You may not be so inclined to show it at times, but… you're a good man, Sherlock," Watson said sincerely with a warm smile as he patted Holmes' shoulder approvingly.

Holmes cringed at the contact and Watson pulled away quickly. "Sorry," he muttered.

Holmes waved the apology away – an action that caused him to wince. "So, what's the verdict, Doctor? Will I live?"

Watson smiled with a sigh. "Yes, I dare say you will. You're pretty bruised but that seems to be the only damage. Nothing hit hard enough to cause internal damage. The swelling will go down soon and the bruising will fade within the next few days. You're wrist will take a bit longer but that will heal perfectly. It seems as if your concussion has dissolved as well."

Watson leaned back and shook his head in disbelief. "My god, Holmes. You have got to be the luckiest person in the world. All that and just some bruising to prove it." He chuckled at the thought.

But Holmes didn't join in with his carefree mood.

He was staring oddly at Watson, as if trying to solve the last case that distracted his mind.

"There is one thing I can't quite put my finger on," Holmes said finally in a serious voice.

"You mean to say that there is a mystery that even the great Sherlock Holmes can't solve?" Watson asked with mock-surprise.

"Why did you wait so long to intervene?"

**_._._._._._._**

**Looks like Watson has some explaining to do too.**

**I took the explanation format from the novels. Anyone who has read the novels would know that the case is only completely solved when Holmes explains it because he witnesses far more clues than Watson. **

**Pretty smart detective work huh? I have taken a liking to forensics. And my anatomy class has again assisted me in writing a more believable doctor's report for Watson.**

**So, I hope to see you next time in which Watson gives his own explanation. This fic is drawing steadily to its conclusion I fear. Thank you for the wonderful reviews and compliments. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. And I do apologize for my previous typos. Thanks for telling me. Constructive criticism leads to improvement. **

**Until next time,  
Hobey-Ho**


	11. Tuesday, Jan 19 10:52 am

The Vengeful Jewel

_**Tuesday, January 19, 1891  
10:52 a.m.**_

"_Why did you wait so long to intervene?"_

The question came out fast and hard; dissuading any attempt of escape through comical distraction.

Watson's laugh caught in his throat as he felt the full force of Holmes' questioning gaze strike him; piercing him to the very core and searching through his soul to find the answer.

Watson's eyes involuntarily flickered to Holmes' throat where the obvious signs of Jones' brutality shone clear as the colors blue and black. Watson could clearly see the points where Jones' fingers had pressed into the soft flesh of the neck. The sight made his stomach lurch and his heart hammer in his chest.

He looked back up to meet the steady gaze of his friend and found that he was somewhat at a loss for words. His reason had seemed so precise and absolute at the beginning of the fight, but that reason faltered now. It seemed so superfluous now that Watson wasn't ready to explain said reason aloud. But he thought back on the events of the case and then made the connection to his own life and philosophy and suddenly the words didn't taste so foul.

"You kissed Mrs. Jones," Watson finally said flatly.

"But she was the one to kiss me," Holmes countered in defense.

Watson shook his head. "That's not the point."

"Then what is?" Holmes asked, his voice darkening with annoyance and incomprehension.

"You kissed back."

Holmes blanched and the scowl lifted from his features to be replaced with shock.

"You kissed a married woman," Watson continued before Holmes could rebuttal. "That man had every right to be furious and I believe that his reaction – though slightly unorthodox – was understandable."

Holmes stared at him with a mixture of hurt at being betrayed by his own friend and shocked by the reason for such a betrayal.

"I know that if you were to ever kiss Mary –"

Holmes made a snorting, disbelieving, and rather disrespectful sound.

"If you were to ever kissed Mary, I would most likely react in the same way," Watson finished forcefully. "Men tend to act protective when their wives are involved. Mr. Jones was merely trying to establish him dominance and thus, gain back the love and admiration of his wife which had dwindled to exceeding low standards."

Holmes considered Watson's words silently. "I suppose I can understand Old Boy. But you've seem to have forgotten the fact that you and that woman are not yet mar –" and then realization struck him as his eyes flashed up to glare at Watson.

"By low standards, I can only assume you mean me," Holmes growled.

Watson laughed and soon Holmes was unable to contain his scowl. The detective smiled in defeat and leaned back more comfortably in his chair.

"So what now?" Watson asked after a while, still sitting before Holmes on the floor like a child waiting for another story to be told. "It's practically afternoon."

"This is my usual routine for the afternoon," Holmes said carelessly, lighting his pipe. "Any ideas, Doctor?"

"Well, I suppose we can start by getting you in a clean shirt," Watson offered as he rose to his feet stiffly.

"The old one will do," Holmes said nonchalantly.

Watson sighed but didn't feel like arguing that Holmes did need to change into a clean shirt periodically. Instead, he bent down to retrieve the shirt that he had removed from Holmes to inspect his body. His fingers closed around the soft fabric and he started to rise.

He managed to straighten before the shirt slipped out from his fingers. Watson frowned at his hands and Holmes' sharp eye was quick to notice the distinct shaking of the hands.

"My dear Watson!" he exclaimed in horror. "All this time you have been treating me when you too need to be treated."

"I'm fine Holmes," Watson protested as he bent over to try again to pick up the shirt. His fingers suddenly felt stiff and heavy as they clumsily picked at the shirt without being able to actually grasp it.

Holmes was already up and out of his chair.

"You can't even pick up a shirt," Holmes declared. "You are in as much pain as I."

"It's nothing," Watson insisted but Holmes was already guiding him into the armchair. Watson sat without further protest and the relief of the action caused an involuntary sigh of relief to escape his lips.

"You see?" Holmes demanded. "You are hurt. And I know precisely why. Because Jones hit you so hard."

A memory seemed to come back to Holmes as he stiffened and suddenly he was peering closely at the wound over Watson's brow.

"At least the bleeding's stopped," he whispered with a sigh. He withdrew and took Watson's place before the armchair where the tired doctor sat.

"Now let's see your arms. I'm sure they are as colored as I am," Holmes urged.

Before Watson could protest or deny, Holmes was already undoing the buttons of Watson's suit. Deciding that it would be easier just to go along with Holmes, Watson allowed the detective to remove the heavy jacket.

"Is this a new suit?" Holmes asked suddenly. "I haven't seen it before."

"A gift from Mary," Watson explained, glancing at the tan tweed suit with affection.

"It's nice."

"No. You can't steal it."

"My good man, I never steal. I prefer the verb 'borrow.'"

"The connotation doesn't change the fact that I'm not going to let you wear the suit."

Holmes frowned and Watson couldn't help but chuckle at the detective's disheartened expression. Regretfully, Holmes placed the suit aside and then removed Watson's undershirt.

As he pulled the cloth away to fully expose Watson's bare torso, his eyes widened in appalled horror.

Watson's arms rested on the arms of the chair and he could clearly see the bruises and swelling that marred the muscular limbs. The ugly black, blue and purple of damaged skin glared back at him. The color was darkest in the middle of asymmetrical splotches that spotted Watson's arms. From these spots, the color leaked out over the skin, creeping up around the elbow and wrists. Only the part of the arm – from the elbow down – was damaged for that was the only part of the arm that Watson was able to defend himself with against the onslaught of Jones' punches.

But Watson cared little from his own well-being. His eyes moved away from his arms to the bare torso of his friend. Holmes was colored in the same way only his bruises covered his entire body while Watson was restricted to just his arms. Holmes was, by far, the worse for wear but the detective was looking at Watson as if the doctor had been the one to fall down a flight of stairs and take the beating Jones retaliated with.

"I'm fine, dear fellow," Watson insisted. "This is nothing compared to the extent of your injuries."

"But yours were never meant to happen," Holmes said solemnly. "It was my fight and you shouldn't have been involved."

Watson smiled at the rare show of affection Holmes offered him. "My dear Holmes," he said sympathetically, "If I had not been involved, you could have very well died."

Holmes met Watson's gaze.

"I'm glad I was able to help you, old friend," Watson said.

Holmes swallowed in discomfort and fidgeted where he stood.

"So, what's the cure," he muttered.

"Rest and a lot of ice," Watson answered as cheerfully as possible so as to calm Holmes.

Holmes' eyes flickered from Watson's damaged arms and back to the comforting gaze of his friend. They wavered with helplessness and he appeared to try and say something.

"Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!" a voice called as footsteps marched up the stairs.

Holmes and Watson had just enough time to turn and look at the door as Mrs. Hudson entered with a flourish and a wide grin.

"I'm back from the –" Her sentence died in her throat as she took in the scene of the two shirtless men before her: one sitting in the chair and the other hovering over him. Shocking still was the colorful bruises that decorated both men.

She sniffed the air and grimaced at the smell of burnt carpet. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the chemical stain that had burned a hole through the carpet – her carpet. Slowly, her eyes traveled over the room, taking the sight of broken glass, collapsed piles of paper and the overall sight of an unkempt room even more disheveled.

Her mouth fell open and the color drained from her face.

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose with his shaking fingers and sank lower into the chair.

"Ah, Nanny. Perfect timing," Holmes enthused; oblivious to the situation, "we are in need of a lot of ice."

**_._._._._._**

**Only one chapter left to go. See ya then and thanks for all your wonderful reviews.  
Hobey-Ho!**


	12. Epilouge

**I know, I know. This chapter took forever to upload. I am sorry for making you all wait so long for the ending. Life can get pretty hectic you know. But it's here now so I hope you can forgive me. **

**You've waited long enough. Read on. **

**_._._._._._**

Epilouge:

"How are you feeling, Holmes?" Doctor Watson asked for the umpteenth time, lowering his newspaper so that he could see his friend.

Sherlock Holmes lounged lazily in his favorite armchair, his pipe in his mouth and his violin leaning up against the upholstery in preparation for use.

Holmes opened his eyes with annoyance. "The more times you ask won't change my condition, Mother Hen," Holmes answered with a sigh of exasperation as he closed his eyes once more.

Watson's eyes flickered down to Holmes' torso where the doctor had carefully wrapped bags of covered ice around the detective's ribcage. The ice would ease the swelling, numb the pain, and slow the blood circulation to allow the damaged vessels to heal and the bruises to fade. His wrist was still supported by a splint and a new splint had been fastened around his left ankle.

Feeling that Watson was still watching him, Holmes opened his eyes. The irritation disappeared from his expression as his eyes softened.

"And how are you holding up, Old Boy?" Holmes asked, staring pointedly at Watson's arms.

Watson followed the detective's gaze and put down the paper to examine his own injuries. His arms had likewise been bandaged with covered ice and it looked as if he wore casts. The wound given to him by Ms. Merrimirt was healing beautifully and only a fading scab remained where he had been struck.

"The same as the last time you asked," Watson replied snidely with a condescending smile at Holmes hypocrisy.

Despite the detective's irritation with Watson's repeated question, Holmes likewise checked up on Watson periodically.

Holmes nodded approvingly and replaced his pipe in his mouth. He moved into a more comfortable position in his chair causing the ice to crunch audibly.

Due to the sound, the doctor and detective were unable to hear the approaching footsteps creaking up the stairs. By the time Holmes had settled comfortably and the ice quieted, there was a knock at the door.

"Would you mind getting that, Watson?" Holmes asked piteously. "My body does not feel like complying to my orders at the moment."

Watson chuckled, knowing full well that Holmes was extremely sore from his fight with Jones. It had taken all of the detective's strong will and strength just to leave his bed and sit in his chair. Or rather, his strong stubbornness.

Watson folded the paper and placed it aside. He stood with ease; his arms hanging heavily at his sides. He turned away from Holmes to walk towards the door but he knew that those dark eyes were watching him.

It took a moment for Watson to get his numbed fingers to grasp the doorknob but he managed to turn it after a minute of struggling. He opened the door and put on a smile to greet his guest.

The gesture was wiped from his lips as his greeting died on his tongue. He took a step back involuntarily as his heart fell to his feet.

Mr. Robert Jones stood before him.

A flurry of movement sounded behind Watson and suddenly Holmes was standing beside him, his hand resting gently on Watson's shoulder to offer encouragement and strength. Foil to Watson's startled expression, Holmes glared at Jones with heated warning.

"I did not come for another fight," Jones explained with a subdued tone. His gaze remained focused on his feet. "I only came to apologize."

With a deep breath for courage, Jones lifted his face to meet the eyes of the men he had fought only a day ago.

Watson felt his arms quiver at the thought as his mind flashed with the memories of Jones and Holmes fighting, the two falling down the stairs, Jones hitting Watson, Jones strangling Holmes. But the memories faded from priority as Watson glanced down to examine the state of Jones.

The taller man was dressed in loose clothes so as to not agitate his injuries. His right arm hung at his chest in a sling while his other hand was wrapped lightly in a splint. His strength seemed to have diminished slightly as his posture was weaker than the first time Watson had seen him: his head dipped forward slightly and his back hunched.

Watson offered a quick sidelong glance to his friend and saw that Holmes had seen all that he had. Now the detective was searching the eyes of his former adversary for the truth that he sought.

At last, Holmes slipped his arm around Watson's shoulder and pulled the doctor back and out of the way of the door.

"I'm pleased to hear it," he said, his tone lighter and cordial. "Please come in. Like us, I imagine that standing is a bit of a discomfort."

Jones smiled briefly with gratitude as he limped through the door and into the room. Holmes closed the door behind him but kept his arm slung over Watson's shoulders.

"I hate to be a bother, Watson," Holmes began ruefully, "but could you kindly escort me back to my seat. It appears that I'm having trouble standing."

Watson straightened to better bear the sudden weight placed upon him and staggered towards the armchair; dragging Holmes along with him.

"Please take a seat there in the basket chair," Holmes said invitingly as Watson maneuvered him past Jones. Jones nodded and limped after them.

Watson made it to the chair and carefully lowered his friend into it. Holmes settled with a heavy sigh and shifted into a more comfortably position with his feet spread out before him.

"Thank you, my dear Watson."

Watson nodded his acknowledgment and moved to return to his own chair as Jones sat in the chair closest to the fire.

"I see you've been to the doctor," Holmes pointed out before an awkward silence could consume the trio.

"Yes," Jones relied curtly, his eyes shifting around the room uneasily.

"Dr. Clyde Rainsferd, I presume," Holmes commented.

Jones' eyes instantly locked onto the detective.

"How could you have –"

"Quite simply actually," Holmes interrupted casually. "The sling around your neck is made with a cotton dyed in a rather peculiar green. Dr. Rainsferd is the only doctor within 10 miles who uses such a color. Also, your splint is criss-crossed with rounded supports. Rainsferd is renowned for such a technique. Dr. Watson here uses a circular wrapping with flat supports. You see?" Holmes asked as he lifted his wrapped hand for Jones to see.

"Y-yes," Jones answer, unsure of what else to say.

"And I dare say that Watson's technique is by far the better," Holmes added. The compliment came out carelessly but Watson felt the warmth of pride swell in his chest at hearing such an opinion.

"And is the lady well?" Holmes asked.

Watson winced and even Jones gave a start. To think that Holmes would bring up such a sensitive subject while in the presence of the very man who had grown enraged at the fact that Holmes even knew his wife.

Actually, considering that Holmes was the one to say it, it wasn't too surprising.

"Yes, she is well," Jones offered stiffly but upon noticing Holmes indifference to the subject, he too relaxed. "She still talks about it. Seems to be rather surprised that I can hold out in such a battle."

"Well, you did fight admirably. As strong as some in the ring even," Holmes replied with respect.

Jones straightened proudly with the compliment and within that very second, all soreness between the two men had disappeared. Respect was gained by both parties and an admiration for the strength and determination the other possessed.

Watson was astounded. For such a problem to be resolved with such ease. Only Sherlock Holmes was capable of such a feat.

The men stared at each other with reverence until Jones broke the spell and fished a pocketwatch from his coat pocket.

"Well, it seems my visit must come to an end. My wife is expecting me," Jones said as he replaced the watch.

He pushed himself to his feet and limped towards Holmes. The detective straightened in his seat and with a grunt, rose to his feet. He swayed slightly where he stood but remained standing.

Jones stopped before the great detective and expert fight and held out his splinted hand.

"I do apologize for my reaction against you," Jones said with the upmost sincerity and respect.

Holmes gripped the offered hand within his own and shook it. "Apology accepted, my good man."

Jones broke the handshake and turned away from Holmes as the detective plopped heavily back into his seat.

Jones moved towards the door but stopped and hesitated in front of Watson. Then he turned to face the doctor and held out his hand.

"And I apologize for my foul treatment of you," he said. "I was not myself and regret the injuries you sustained because of it."

Watson swiftly rose to his feet and threw his hand into Jones'. "Apology accepted."

Jones nodded gratefully and continued for the door. He opened it and stepped through. With a last bow, he closed the door behind him and his disoriented footsteps echoed down the steps and the front door was audibly closed.

Watson turned away from the closed door and faced Holmes with amazement stark on his face.

"A fine gentleman that one is," Holmes said aloud before slouching in his chair and retrieving his violin from the floor.

"You, my dear Holmes, are the luckiest man I have ever known," Watson said incredulously.

"Well, I cannot argue with your logic," Holmes said nonchalantly. Watson chuckled with a shake of his head as he reopened the paper to read the article about the solved case of the missing jewel of Mrs. Katherine Jones.

As Watson read, the chilling and beautiful lull of the violin sounded and soon only its haunting melody was heard in the room.

**_._._._._._**

**And there it is**

**THE END**

**I probably have a few new readers by now so I hope you liked it too.**

**Thank you all for reading and for all of your wonderful comments. I'll see ya next time. **

**Hobey-Ho! **


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